Moonlight Becomes You

  38

  ALL HE ASKED FOR WAS A LITTLE QUIET, BUT DR. WILLIAM Lane knew he was not going to be granted that wish. Odile was as wound up as a top about to spin. He lay in bed with his eyes closed, wishing to God that at least she would turn off the damn light. But instead she sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair as a torrent of words poured from her lips.

  “These days are so trying, aren’t they? Everyone just loved Greta Shipley, and she was one of our charter members. You know, that’s two of our sweetest ladies in as many weeks. Of course, Mrs. Rhinelander was eighty-three, but she’d been doing so well—and then, all of a sudden, you could see her start to fail. That’s the way it happens at a certain age, isn’t it? Closure? The body just closes down.”

  Odile did not seem to notice that her husband did not respond. It didn’t matter; she continued anyway. “Of course, Nurse Markey was concerned about that little spell Mrs. Shipley had Monday night. This morning she told me she spoke to you about it again yesterday.”

  “I examined Mrs. Shipley right after she had that spell,” Dr. Lane said wearily. “There was no reason for alarm. Nurse Markey brought up that episode only because she was trying to justify the fact that she’d been barging into Mrs. Shipley’s apartment without knocking.”

  “Well, of course, you’re the doctor, dear.”

  Dr. Lane’s eyes flew open with sudden realization. “Odile, I don’t want you discussing my patients with Nurse Markey,” he said sharply.

  Ignoring the tone of his voice, Odile continued, “That new medical examiner is quite young, isn’t she? What was her name, Lara Horgan? I didn’t know that Dr. Johnson had retired.”

  “He retired as of the first. That was Tuesday.”

  “I wonder why anyone would choose to be a medical examiner, especially such an attractive young woman? But she does seem to know her business.”

  “I doubt if she’d have been appointed if she didn’t know her business,” he responded tartly. “She stopped in with the police only because she was in the neighborhood and wanted to see our layout. She asked very competent questions about Mrs. Shipley’s medical history. Now, Odile, if you don’t mind, I really must get some sleep.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I know how tired you are, and how upsetting this day has been.” Odile put down the brush and took off her robe.

  Ever the glamour girl, William Lane thought as he watched his wife’s preparations for bed. In eighteen years of marriage, he had never seen her wear a nightgown that wasn’t frilly. At one time she had charmed him. No longer, though—not for years.

  She got into bed, and at last the light went out. But now William Lane was no longer sleepy. As usual, Odile had managed to say something that would gnaw at him.

  That young medical examiner was a different cut from good old Dr. Johnson. He had always approved death certificates with a casual wave of his pen. Be careful, Lane warned himself. In the future, you’ve got to be more careful.

  Friday, October 4th

  39

  WHEN MAGGIE FIRST AWOKE ON FRIDAY MORNING, SHE squinted at the clock and saw that it was only six. She knew she probably had had enough sleep, but she wasn’t yet willing to get up, so she closed her eyes again. About half an hour later she fell into an uneasy sleep in which vague, troublesome dreams came and went, then faded altogether when she woke up again at seven-thirty.

  She arose feeling groggy and headachy and decided that a brisk, after-breakfast walk along Ocean Drive would probably help clear her head. I need that, she thought, especially since I’ve got to go to the cemeteries again this morning.

  And tomorrow you’ll be at Trinity Cemetery for Mrs. Shipley’s funeral, an interior voice reminded her. For the first time, Maggie realized that Mrs. Bainbridge had said that Greta Shipley was being buried there. Not that that made a difference. She would have gone to both cemeteries today no matter what. After spending so much time going over those photographs last night, she was anxious to see what was causing the odd glint she detected on Nuala’s grave.

  She showered, dressed in jeans and a sweater, and had a quick juice and coffee before she went out. Maggie was immediately glad she had made the decision to take the walk. The early fall day was magnificent. The sun was brilliant as it rose in the sky, though there was a cool ocean breeze that made her thankful she had reached for her jacket. There was also the glorious sound of the crashing waves, and the unique, wonderful scent of salt and sea life that filled the air.

  I could fall in love with this place, she thought. Nuala spent her summers here when she was a girl. How she must have missed this when she moved away from it.

  After a mile, Maggie turned and retraced her steps. Looking up, she realized that only a glimpse of the third floor of Nuala’s house—my house, she thought—showed from the road. There are too many trees around it, she told herself. They should come down or at least be trimmed. And I wonder why the end of the property that would afford a drop-dead view of the ocean has never been built on. Could there be restrictions against building there?

  The question nagged at her as she finished her walk. I really should look into that, she thought. From what Nuala told me, Tim Moore bought this property at least fifty years ago. Haven’t there been any changes in building restrictions since then? she wondered.

  Back at the house, she paused only long enough to have another quick cup of coffee before she left promptly at nine. She wanted to get the cemetery visits over with.

  40

  AT QUARTER PAST NINE, NEIL STEPHENS STOPPED HIS CAR in front of the mailbox with the name MOORE painted on it. He got out, walked up the path and onto the porch, and rang the bell. There was no answer. Feeling like a voyeur, he went over to the window. The shade was only half drawn, and he had a clear view into what seemed to be the living room.

  Not knowing what he was looking for, other than for some tangible sign that Maggie Holloway might be there, he walked around to the back and peered through the window in the kitchen door. He could see a coffeepot on the stove, and next to the sink a cup and saucer and juice glass were upturned, suggesting that they had been rinsed and left to dry. But had they been there for days or only minutes?

  Finally he decided he had nothing to lose by ringing a neighbor’s bell and inquiring whether anyone had seen Maggie. He received no response at the first two houses he tried. At the third house, the doorbell was answered by an attractive couple who appeared to be in their mid-sixties. As he quickly told them why he was there, he realized he had lucked out.

  The couple, who introduced themselves as Irma and John Woods, told him of Nuala Moore’s death and funeral, and of Maggie’s presence in the house. “We were supposed to visit our daughter last Saturday but didn’t go until after Nuala’s funeral,” Mrs. Woods explained. “Just got back late last night. I know Maggie is here. I haven’t spoken to her since we got back, but I saw her go for a walk this morning.”

  “And I saw her drive past about fifteen minutes ago,” John Woods volunteered.

  They invited him in for coffee and told him about the night of the murder.

  “What a sweet girl Maggie is,” Irma Woods sighed. “I could tell how heartbroken she was about losing Nuala, but she isn’t one to carry on. The hurt was all in her eyes.”

  Maggie, Neil thought. I wish I could have been here for you.

  The Woodses had no idea where Maggie might have gone this morning, or how long she would be out.

  I’ll leave her a note to call me, Neil decided. There’s nothing else I can do. But then he had an inspiration. When he drove away five minutes later, he had left a note for Maggie on the door, and he also had her phone number tucked securely in his pocket.

  41

  REMEMBERING THE CURIOUS QUESTIONS ASKED BY THE child who had wanted to know why she was taking pictures at Nuala’s grave, Maggie stopped at a florist’s and bought an assortment of fall flowers to place on the graves she intended to inspect.

  As before, once she passed the entrance to St.
Mary’s, the welcoming statue of the angel and the meticulously kept plots seemed to impart a sense of peace and immortality. Veering to the left, she drove up the winding incline that led to Nuala’s grave.

  As she stepped from the car, she sensed that a workman weeding the gravel path nearby was watching her. She had heard of people being mugged in cemeteries, but the thought passed quickly. There were other workmen in the area as well.

  But given the fact there was someone so close by, she was glad she had thought to pick up the flowers; she would rather not seem to be examining the grave. Squatting down next to the plot, she selected a half dozen of the flowers and laid them one by one at the base of the tombstone.

  The flowers Greta Shipley had placed there on Tuesday had been removed, and Maggie quickly consulted the snapshot she was holding to see exactly where she had detected the glint of some metal-like object.

  It was fortunate she had brought the picture, she realized, because the object she was looking for had sunk more deeply into the moist earth and easily could have been missed. But it was there.

  She looked swiftly to the side and realized she had the workman’s undivided attention. Kneeling forward, she bowed her head and crossed herself, then let her folded hands drop to the ground. Still in the posture of prayer, her fingers touching the sod, she dug around the object and freed it.

  She waited for a moment. When she glanced around again, the workman had his back turned to her. With one motion, she yanked the object up and hastily concealed it between her joined palms. As she did this, she heard a muffled ringing sound.

  A bell? she thought. Why in God’s name would anyone bury a bell on Nuala’s grave? Certain that the workman had heard the sound as well, she got up and walked quickly back to her car.

  She laid the bell down on top of the remaining flowers. Not wanting to stay another minute under the scrutiny of the watchful maintenance worker, she drove slowly in the direction of the second grave she wanted to visit. She parked in the nearby cul-de-sac, then looked around. There was no one nearby.

  Opening the car window, she carefully picked up the bell and held it outside. After brushing off the loose earth that clung to it, she turned it around in her hand, examining it, her fingers holding the clapper to keep it from pealing.

  The bell was about three inches high, and surprisingly heavy, not unlike an old-fashioned miniature school bell, except for the decorative garland of flowers bordering the base. The clapper was heavy too, she noticed. When allowed to hang freely, it no doubt could make quite a sound.

  Maggie closed the car window, held the bell near the floor of the car and swung it. A melancholy but nevertheless clear ringing sound resounded through the car.

  A Stone for Danny Fisher, she thought. That was the title of one of the books that had been in her father’s library. She remembered that as a child she had asked him what the title meant, and he had explained that it was a tradition in the Jewish faith that anyone stopping by the grave of a friend or relative would place a stone there as a sign of the visit.

  Could this bell signify something like that? Maggie wondered. Feeling vaguely as though she were doing something amiss in taking the bell, she slid it out of sight under the seat of the car. Then she selected another half-dozen flowers, and with the appropriate photograph in hand, went to revisit the grave of another of Greta Shipley’s friends.

  * * *

  Her last stop was at Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave; it had been the photograph of this grave that most clearly seemed to show a gap in the sod near the base of the tombstone. As Maggie arranged the remaining flowers on the damp grass, her fingers sought and found the indented area.

  * * *

  Maggie needed to think, and she was not ready to go back to the house where there might be interruptions. Instead she drove into the center of town and found a luncheonette, where she ordered a toasted blueberry muffin and coffee.

  I was hungry, she admitted to herself as the crusty muffin and strong coffee helped to dissipate the all-encompassing uneasiness she had experienced in the cemeteries.

  Another memory of Nuala flashed into her mind. When Maggie was ten, Porgie, her roguish miniature poodle, had jumped on Nuala as she lay dozing on the couch. She had let out a shriek, and when Maggie went running in, Nuala had laughed and said, “Sorry, honey. I don’t know why I’m so jumpy. Someone must be walking on my grave.”

  Then, because Maggie had been at an age when she wanted to know everything, Nuala had had to explain that the expression was an old Irish saying meaning that someone was walking over the spot where you would someday be buried.

  There had to be a simple explanation for what she had found today, Maggie reasoned. Of the six burial plots she had visited, four, including Nuala’s, had bells at the base of the tombstone, each exactly like the others in weight and size. It appeared as well that one had been removed from the ground near Mrs. Rhinelander’s tombstone. So that meant only one of Greta Shipley’s friends had not received this odd tribute—if, indeed, that was what it was.

  As she drained the last of the coffee and shook her head, refusing the waitress’s smiling offer of a refill, a name popped into Maggie’s mind: Mrs. Bainbridge!

  Like Greta Shipley, she had been at Latham Manor since it opened. She must have known all those women too, Maggie realized.

  Back in her car, Maggie called Letitia Bainbridge on the cellular phone. She was in her apartment.

  “Come right over,” she told Maggie. “I’d love to see you. I’ve been a bit blue this morning.”

  “I’m on my way,” Maggie replied.

  When she replaced the phone in its cradle, she reached under the seat for the bell she had taken from Nuala’s grave. Then she put it in her shoulder bag.

  She shuddered involuntarily as she pulled away from the curb. The metal had felt cold and clammy to her touch.

  42

  IT HAD BEEN ONE OF THE LONGEST WEEKS OF MALCOLM Norton’s life. The shock of having Nuala Moore cancel the sale of her house, followed by Barbara’s announcement that she was going to visit for an extended period with her daughter in Vail, had left him numbed and frightened.

  He had to get his hands on that house! Telling Janice about the impending change in the Wetlands Act had been a terrible mistake. He should have taken a chance and forged her name on the mortgage papers. He was that desperate.

  Which was why, when Barbara put through the call from Chief Brower on this Friday morning, Malcolm felt perspiration spring out on his forehead. It took him a few moments to compose himself enough to be satisfied that his tone of voice would radiate good cheer.

  “Good morning, Chief. How are you?” he said, trying to put a smile in his voice.

  Chet Brower clearly was not in the mood for chitchat. “I’m fine. I’d like to drop over and talk with you for a few minutes today.”

  What about? Malcolm thought, momentarily panicked, but said in a hearty voice, “That would be great, but I warn you, I already bought my tickets to the Policemen’s Ball.” Even in his own ears, his stab at humor fell flat.

  “When are you free?” Brower snapped.

  Norton had no intention of telling Brower exactly how free he was. “I had a closing at eleven that’s been postponed till one, so I do have an opening.”

  “I’ll see you at eleven.”

  Well after hearing the dismissive click, Malcolm stared nervously at the receiver he held in his hand. Finally he set it down.

  There was a gentle tap on the door, and Barbara poked her head in the office. “Malcolm, is there anything wrong?”

  “What could be wrong? He just wants to talk to me. The only thing I can imagine is that it has to do with last Friday night.”

  “Oh, of course. The murder. The usual procedure is for the police to keep asking close friends if they might have remembered anything that didn’t seem important at the time. And, of course, you and Janice did go to Mrs. Moore’s for the dinner party.”

  You and Janice. Malcolm frowned.
Was that reference intended to remind him that he still had taken no action to legally separate from Janice? No, unlike his wife, Barbara didn’t play word games filled with hidden meanings. Her son-in-law was an assistant district attorney in New York; she had probably heard him talk about his cases, Malcolm reasoned. And, of course, television and movies were filled with details of police procedure.

  She started to close the door again. “Barbara,” he said, his voice pleading, “just give me a little more time. Don’t leave me now.”

  Her only answer was to close the door with a firm click.

  * * *

  Brower arrived promptly at eleven. He sat bolt upright in the armchair opposite Norton’s desk and got right to the point.

  “Mr. Norton, you were due at Nuala Moore’s home at eight o’clock the night of the murder?”

  “Yes, my wife and I arrived at perhaps ten after eight. From what I understand, you had just arrived on the scene. As you know, we were instructed to wait in the home of Nuala’s neighbors, the Woodses.”

  “What time did you leave your office that evening?” Brower asked.

  Norton’s eyebrows raised. He thought for a moment. “At the usual time . . . no, actually a bit later. About quarter of six. I had a closing outside the office and brought the file back here and checked on messages.”

  “Did you go directly home from here?”

  “Not quite. Barbara . . . Mrs. Hoffman, my secretary, had been out that day with a cold. The day before, she had taken home a file I needed to study over the weekend, so I stopped at her house to pick it up.”

  “How long did that take?”

  Norton thought for a moment. “She lives in Middletown. There was tourist traffic, so I’d say about twenty minutes each way.”

  “So you were home around six-thirty.”